And it is a Good Thing
Yes, Madre, I am breathing-- Listen
the beauty of a thought in the hallow
of an Amaryllis blossom singing
caught me short, as if placing second
in some marathon operetta
second running, because I'm catching up
in Harmony all these years to the Melody above
Yes, Madre, I'm calling it a Life--
And I am, breathing low, in surrender
to the emotion that has me rooted still
at the pump, that which is pumping blood
for some unanticipated trip between
these hemispheres I call one, and precious
--heart, or brain, or the soul that twines
the pause of understanding, our silence
in the hum, that withhold, for which I'm living
--a seed planted amid the Pine Barren
Yes, Madre, in awe, I am breathing just a little
Authentic Intelligence
On the proposed battle between Artificial Intelligence vs. Authentic Stupidity, I like most everyone, take the side of Authentic Stupidity, and hurry to add that I too am working on it... and, in fact, I see computer generated art as still a human artifact.
The simplest description of this case, it seems, is in the visual realm.
Consider for a moment this progression: Primitive man drew with fingers in the sand; Cave men used pigmented mineral rocks on stone; and Artist materials changed to vellum, wood, or hemp, genuine hairbrushes, and oil paints for renaissance painters, onward; and then to plastics, for more modern art.
Degenerate one might speculate, seeing how man and creative force have become so far removed from bedrock. We've come a long way to the somewhat ironic return of a "digital" age, in which people now use their fingers to paint with virtual paintbrushes... and have neither paint, nor brush, nor canvas... only bits of code on glass or plexi.
(One might pause to reflect that we have reached as if a pinnacle of Realism, having seen everything as points of light. Pixels and illusion.)
That a person, or its ghost, that once was, can continue to generate artwork having provided the most recent creative technology with just a fragment of input is quite decadent. We have moved as if from laymen ever closer to godliness in our causal irresponsibility (*a creative oxymoron).
That is not, though, why I am vying on the side of Authentic Stupidity. I will always champion the weaker contingent, and it has to do with content, but not at all its creation. Everyone, or everything, if you prefer, creates. That is the Nature of our existence, its landscape. The Universe. That is not where the loss is. Or rather the fight worth having. Content is content.
What I'd like to point out is that Artificial Intelligence will never Appreciate.
Not with human fullness. I realize I am perhaps stupidly stating the obvious. AI will never look at a painting for pleasure; It will never touch a sculpture with its mind's eye; Or read a book with interest; Listen to a song to remember; Nor cry irrationally at a happy-ending-film. Computer generated images, words, music or videos, however, will continue to move us--emotionally--- but only for as long as we remain sensitive.
Whether that is Authentic Stupidity, or Authentic Intelligence, is another question.
The Fall
Creativity, loved
bled, and bloody
left me,
autumnal winds
stretching out
my draft deafening door,
swinging low
with lament:
...you used us
like a drug,
and now
we're fully wasted...
useless body! and breath what
could have been made, cohesive
for consumptive ritual,
you slaughtered
and butchered--!
with Life seeping out
its shell casing, housing
this bullet, aimed falsely
in vigilance, of a second helping
...eating is nonsensical
...and sleep is a wake
for grieving demons,
their gnashing of teeth
foretold
in Revelations!
for those who long buried
with primitive spade and hatchet
the half-spent core, reactive
that which sprouted fevered
exponential saplings, of temptation
blotched green and gold and red...
fading to russet,
brittle and deadening...
an ache I'd hope to feel again
shedding this blanket of snow
Imposter
Clarence walked nonchalantly downtown, nothing especial to do, and while humming a tune he espied a placard between entrances to indeterminate establishments. It read:
Love Shopping? …seeking person or persons to pose in store incognito. $12 per survey.
He didn’t, particularly, love shopping, but the poster intrigued him. Was it a social experiment? A zealous competitor trying to undermine its opposition? A fraud baiting naïve-innocents with a non-fatiguing lure? But then again what was twelve bucks nowadays? A drink and a sandwich, and nothing fancy. So, how many survey’s were they talking about? Doing exactly what? His mind took a cynical bend.
He dialed the number walking. Having already paused too long, he took the call from a distance. Defensively posturing, as others might have presumed-- making a connection-- that he had been, maybe, suckered in.
He expected an automated service.
“Hello, Abott Marketing. How may I help you?” said a polite yet sultry voice of unspecified age, young but mature, or mature but youthful-- very attentive.
Now he felt a reproachful goofiness, a grown man seeking a shopping spree, not worth a dozen singles. And yet:
“Uh, yes. I’m responding to the advert posted,” he said feigning great interest, animating his tone a little extra, unnecessarily.
“What is your location?” she enunciated charmingly. Was he detecting an accent? He couldn’t quite place it. He craned his neck out from the shadow doorway he’d ducked into to better read the street sign:
“Corner of First and Boulder.”
“One moment…” and abrupt silence swept into music.
He started imagining how the face or body might match or contrast the vocal. The elevator tune raised an image of Jane Harlow, then turned a bit more Latina from Rita Hayworth to Victoria Monet, and then she was suddenly an overbearing trench with gorilla arms and low drawn hat not quite in any traditional shape, drooping and uniform grey, barely covering steely grey eyes.
“Ya’ rang?” he growled in a low hoarse whisper.
The wire went dead.
“Yeah. The… woman had me... on hold… “ he hung up and fixed his lip, emotionless.
“Ya’d be waitin’ a long time, heh, heh?” the cavalier sniggered at the dummy.
He had been taken in, a robocall, after all; and this was strange “personal” service.
Just how far was this farce going to evolve?
He kept a poker face. It was well-tanned apeman’s turn to make a false move.
Seamless
I look at these scars
and think, uncritically
live with love, or do without
none of these
were caused
by anyone
only by carrying on, and caring about
I stabbed myself with scissors when I was little
and have stitch-slashes across my middle
and at the temple a small, raised gash
looking in the mirror in confusion
as to which side it happened on,
Good or Evil?
I still have callous marks on the left
from flailing on the violin
and from squeezing the life
out of my pencil on the right
in pursuit of... I'm not sure what?
little pieces of hearts, always
to make whole again
maybe more fully loveable
maybe only to oneself
trying not to take anything
from anybody,
like it might be theft
I've refused everything,
even advice freely given
and I'd wish for all of us
a skin blameless, and smoothly healing
To Love To Hate
I thought about commitment
or to whom I shalt hold my self
accountable. Breath held, solid,
in, for a count of ten, and then
a letting go. Of anger, my anchor;
weight, the devil behind me. Speaks
in sign language. I read clouds and
tea leaves. Signals that have found
me, a right moment of suspension
and if sin is forgiven, already, then
Lucifer is still an angel. And I also
am always in the process of failing.
Sharpness of Sandstone
Sand. The pinnacle on which we establish
the fullness of our measure, suspended,
is nothing more than uncrystallized glass
and we build, momentum, burnt, of
excess heat, from plaintive need, to see
the reflection of our limitation, mental,
as dullness of unsharpened metal, and
the self-condemnation, of which we are
Guilty
in the end, our becoming,
building as if we were stone, and hatchet
we don't fly in, like birds, shattered, no
we love our windows, as favored seats and
preen ourselves before the confines, of
our mirrors, having learned the shadows
and telltale highlights, yes, we profess that
sand is built on sand, and stone is
every bit just that and nothing more,
in the quake, Earth and pebble, both,
are space debris, and we polish, till sore;
Satisfied, that we have, gracefully, fallen.